


Slippery Slope

by rumor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Skiing, Snowboarding, idek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumor/pseuds/rumor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written forever ago for Trilliath's prompt: I just really want there to be a mountain AU where Derek is like this competitive downhill skier and Laura is his coach. Or an olympian in her own right or something. And he moves to a new place and has to find new routes to ski. And Stiles is a park guide and general ski-bum.</p><p>I made Stiles a snowboarder cause REASONS, but I hope it’s close to what she was looking for!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I AM WELL AWARE THE TITLE SUCKS BUT I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL SO SUE ME.
> 
> Currently-plotless fluff that may or may not actually ever get updated.

"I don’t need a guide," Derek gritted through clenched teeth. "It’s a mountain, not a labyrinth!"

His sister wasn’t fazed, and simply looked down her nose at him. How she managed that when she was three inches shorter than he was, Derek had never figured out. “It’s a _giant_ mountain. Your ‘just go downhill until you reach the base’ method isn’t going to do you any good if you end up on the wrong side of it. And I am _not_ going on a hiking adventure to find you.”

And that was how Derek ended up waiting impatiently at the lift for his so-called guide, while Laura frolicked off with her friends. He had half a mind to forget her proclamation and head up on his own, but with his luck, then he _would_ get lost, and he’d never hear the end of it.

"Mr. Hale?" Resigned, he turned, and promptly stared.

“ _You’re_ the guide?” It came out more accusatory than Derek had intended, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You’re a _snowboarder!_ ”

"Excellently deduced," the guy responded cheerfully, without a hint of animosity. "I’m Stiles. Stilinski." He pulled off a glove and extended his hand, and Derek did the same to return the grip, grudgingly noting the long, artistic fingers, surprisingly warm in contrast to the bitterly cold air.

"Derek Hale." As he pulled the glove back on, he eyed the other man. His guide was named Stiles. His jacket was bright red, patterned with a subtle grid of slightly darker color, his snowpants charcoal gray. His helmet matched, gray with a grid pattern of thin red lines covering it. And his snowboard was decorated with a riot of red runes, symbols, and Celtic knots, twisting around a black and gray wolf. The only subdued thing about him were his boots, which were solid black. The snow gear, while high quality, was obviously well used - there were threadbare patches on the knees of his snowpants, his gloves were fading in places and worn at the fingertips, and the cuffs of his jacket were frayed. Derek, dressed primarily in conservative black, with silver-patterned skies, felt as though he was standing next to a beacon. People were glancing at them constantly, and mostly in askance at the out-of-place snowboarder.

He’d bet his silver medal that Laura had planned this.

"Seriously? THE Derek Hale? I saw you ski last winter, it was amazing! Great to meet you! I hear you’re new to Whittemore Ridge." Stiles’ - what the hell kinda name is Stiles, anyway - grin was probably infectious to anyone who wasn’t Derek. Derek, however, just gave him a flat look and refused to squirm at the praise.

"Yes." Why else would he need a guide?

Unfazed, Stiles bobbed his head in a nod several times. “Well why don’t we head on up, and you can tell me more about yourself, and what you’d like to do today.”

"By all means." Derek gestured for him to lead the way, and followed him toward the gondola. If he sounded a more than a little sarcastic, well, his guide didn’t seem to mind.

\- - - - -

In the space of a few short minutes, he learned that Stiles is a northern California native, and grew up both skiing and snowboarding on occasion, but didn’t really get into it until he moved out east to go to school. After falling in with a group of boarders, he found his passion. He dropped out after his sophomore year to chase the snow, although apparently he’s still working on his degree - a double major in Classics and Psychology - during the summer months.

This rapid input of personal information was making Derek’s head spin, so he tuned out the chatter and took the opportunity to look. He was originally looking out the window of the gondola, noting trails that looked interesting and trying to match them to the map he’d looked at earlier. However, his gaze kept getting pulled to Stiles. He was young, early twenties, although admittedly Derek wasn’t much older. He talked with energy _and_ with his hands, the combination drawing sideways looks from the other occupants of the small compartment.

"So what are you trying to accomplish today? Was there something in particular you wanted to work on?"

The direct question made Derek blink, startling him out of his thoughts. Realizing he’d been staring, he cleared his throat. “Just getting a feel for the mountain, today. Laura wanted me to get familiar with the trails and the conditions before we started working.”

Stiles’ expression was curious. “Laura’s your coach?”

"Coach. Trainer. Sister. Menace." Derek shrugged a shoulder to indicate that any of the titles would suffice.

Stiles snapped his fingers - or rather, he tried to, but the gloves on his hand impeded the gesture. He didn’t appear to notice. “Laura Hale! I knew the name was familiar. She took gold a few years back, didn’t she? I think I was still in high school.”

"That’s her," Derek confirmed, and then, thankfully, the gondola was shuddering faintly as it slowed, the doors opening to release them into the cold. They stepped off onto the platform, took their equipment from the rack, and walked away from the small crowd of people disembarking. They were not at the top of the ridge, but they were close, mountains falling away before them, other peaks in the range rising in the distance. Tipping his head back, Derek took a deep breath of the cold, clear air. At least Stiles hadn’t insisted on making sure he could ski the bunny hill before heading to the top.

Turning to look for the guide, who was leaning over to buckle on his board, Derek felt his stomach drop. Snowpants should not be that well fitted, Jesus Christ. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as Stiles straightened, buckling his helmet.

"So this is Fairchild Peak, and her sisters are Diamond, Memorial, and Outlook. Diamond -" he gestured up - "is the highest, and the only one with snow year round. Outlook is up and to our right. Few trails, but an excellent view. Memorial is to our left. I was thinking we’d take the scenic route for a warm up run. Curve around on Fallon’s Run, down to Jaywalk, and then cut across on Getaway back to Fairchild’s gondola. After that, we can head up to Diamond, if you want. Sound good?"

Derek only nodded, pulling his balaclava up over his nose and his goggles down over his eyes. He stepped into his skies, watching as Stiles idly slid his board around, then looked up, his grin and his excitement somehow obvious, even behind goggles and the swath of fabric over his lower face. “Ready?” Derek simply nodded again, looping the straps of his poles over his wrists, and Stiles slid away.

They curved down the trail, quick but smooth, zipping over fresh powder. Although he followed automatically, behind his goggles Derek was giving his guide a considering look. He had seen some of the best snowsport athletes in action. Hell, he _was_ one of the best snowsport athletes. And Stiles was good. He’d have to be, to get down this particular ridge in one piece, but there was an ease to his movements, a confidence, that suggested he could do excellent things on a board. _I wonder if he could do excellent things in bed,_ Derek’s libido commented unhelpfully, and the thought surprised him so much that he almost wiped out. He recovered ungracefully, only to see Stiles sliding on his toes several yards below him, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Scowling behind his balaclava, Derek shot past the guide, and spent the rest of the run deliberately focusing on the quiet rush of skies on snow. He paid attention to the flex into turns and the precise glide of well sharpened edges, to the pine forests flashing by in the corners of his vision. And if he also happened to notice how he and Stiles wove past and around each other as they descended the mountain, or the way he would lean into his turns, that was no one’s business but his own.


	2. Chapter 2

In all fairness, Stiles really did know a lot about the mountain. He consistently pointed out landmarks, trails that kept the best snow cover, where to find moguls, where it tended to get icy, et cetera. In fact, there wasn't much he _didn't_ point out. Silence only reigned when they were moving down the hill. On the lifts, or during the frequent pauses to point out trail intersections, he provided a constant stream of information. Derek, for his part, did his best to absorb it all.

Despite all the stops, they were covering quite a bit of ground. It would probably take weeks to ski every trail Whittemore Ridge offered, but at the very least, he was mapping out the basics. However, the tour apparently didn't include off-trail terrain, and by early afternoon Derek was practically itching to drop off the groomed snow and go zip through the powder. As they departed the lift, he prepared to broach the subject, but his stomach interrupted with a demanding growl. Frowning down at the offending organ, he ignored Stiles' laugh and let his skies drop so he could click into the bindings.

"Glad I'm not the only one working up an appetite. Ready for some lunch?"

Derek shrugged. "Sure." He turned away, and would have headed down Pipeline, the most direct route to the base lodge, but Stiles slid past and bypassed the drop, curving onto an unfamiliar run. The sign declared it "Game Trail," and as he followed, it quickly became obvious why. Once the trail dropped below the treeline, it became narrow and twisty, winding through the pines.

About three quarters of the way down, by Derek's estimate, Stiles abruptly shot onto a side track. Baffled, he followed, only to blink when signs of civilization appeared, nestled between the trees. They slid to a stop on an area of packed snow beside a small parking lot, where a motley collection of Jeeps and Rangers huddled beside a hulking timber building. Displayed above the main entrance, a carved wolf was stretched in mid-leap over the sign, which read "The Wolf's Den." Beyond the building the land fell away, taking the dirt road with it, to offer a view of the mountains.

"This isn't the base lodge," Derek stated obviously.

"No," was Stiles' cheerful agreement, muffled as he unstrapped his board. "This is much better. Trust me, you'll see, it's the _best_."

Straightening, he set his snowboard against the supplied rack, where several pairs of skies leaned, and headed for the entrance. Shaking his head, Derek set his skies aside and followed. After climbing the steps, they shook off the worst of the snow before passing through the entryway. The warmth and noise, after spending all morning in the silent, icy wind, was almost stifling. It was surprisingly crowded, for such an isolated place, though the appeal was easy to see. The space was all warm, dark wood and sturdy, comfortable furniture. A bar ran the length of the wall to their left, facing the expanse of windows opposite, with tables scattered between. Armchairs, couches, and coffee tables clustered around the large stone hearths at each end wall, where fires crackled quietly. Photos, ranging from vintage to glossy high-def, hung over shelves that displayed an array of ribbons and awards. Derek did a quick tally of the medals he could see, and found two silvers and a bronze.

Stiles led the way to an empty table by the windows with a wave at the bartender, shedding gear as he went and miraculously not dropping anything on the floor. Without the loose-fitting jacket, he was even more slender, but there was no denying the muscle tone throughout his arms and chest. Derek pushed down the twinge of envy, and refused to acknowledge the flush of attraction. He was more solidly built - no matter what he ate or how he trained, no matter how much muscle mass he pared down, there was nothing to be done about the breadth of his shoulders or the thickness of his bone. As it was, it was surprising he’d made it so far in his athletic career, compared to his whipcord competition.

Having dumped his stuff on the table, Stiles turned with a grin. "Pretty cool, huh? Lots cozier than the base lodge, right?" Derek nodded as he pulled off his helmet and began the process of removing the outer layers. They laid their gear out to dry, hanging jackets and neck warmers and gloves over the backs of chairs, while Stiles chattered on about how, "The base is impressive, yeah, but it's a bit over the top, for my tastes. This is where the locals tend to congregate." He flopped into a chair, and Derek settled himself a bit less dramatically, leaning over to loosen his boots. Stiles broke off abruptly, calling out, "Hey, Al!" and Derek looked up to find a pretty brunette waitress walking their way.

"Hey Stiles," she greeted, returning the grin as she slid a couple menus onto the table. "You working?"

"Yup. This is Derek Hale, he's getting the grand tour today. Derek, this is Allison Argent." The name was familiar, Stiles had mentioned an 'Allison' at some point. Best friend's girlfriend, or something like that - he did a double take.

She nodded at him with a smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Argent? As in -?"

"The coach, Chris Argent?" This smile was more wry. "Yeah, he's my dad."

"Ah. Well, nice to meet you, too. " He returned the nod, and apparently satisfied with that, Allison pulled a pad of paper and pen from a pocket, her manner becoming businesslike.

"So what can I get you guys? Anything to drink?"

Stiles glanced over at him. "Do you need a minute to decide?"

"No, that's okay, let me just -" He flipped open the menu, scanned it quickly, and handed it back to Allison. "I'll have the salmon, with rice. And water's fine."

"Great choice. Stiles?" she asked, making a note.

"The usual, with a coke, please."

"Alright, I'll be right back with those drinks for you."

She left, and he found Stiles looking at him quizzically. "You know Chris Argent?"

Derek shook his head, shoulders hunching slightly. "Not really. I know who he is, of course, but I've never met him. But his sister coached Laura for a season. It, ah, didn't go well."

"Oh." Stiles seemed to realize there were better topics of conversation available, because he moved on. "Well Al lives in town with Scott - I think I mentioned him? He's a vet tech, but they both help out with Ski Patrol and Search and Rescue during the winter, which is pretty cool. We had a pretty bad avalanche last winter, the two of them found like four people. Well, the three of them - they've got a Belgian Shepherd, Kodiak, that they work with."

"Do you get a lot of avalanches out here?" he asked cautiously. If he wanted to mention getting off the trails, it would probably be best to do so when his guide wasn't reflecting on the various dangers the mountains possessed. However, Stiles shook his head.

"Not many, especially on this side of the ridge. And I've never heard of us getting one at this time of year. It's too early in the season. Spring's when it can get dangerous. They close the back side of Diamond completely at that time of year - that's where we tend to see the most of them."

"So people do ski the back of the ridge? Off trail?" Derek hedged, and got a strange look in response.

"Of course they do. It's one of the main appeals of skiing the west. Admittedly, we don't have as much natural terrain as you'd see, say, in the Alps. But we get by."

"Maybe we could check it out?" he asked, aiming for casual. Stiles, however, took on a slightly pinched expression, and Derek received the impression that this was a question that came up a lot.

Leaning forward in his seat, Stiles set his elbows on the table and said carefully, "That is against Whittemore Ridge policy. I _do_ work for the mountain, even though I don't necessarily look like it." He reached into his shirt and pulled out a laminated pass that hung from a thin cord around his neck, turning it so Derek could see 'EMPLOYEE' emblazoned across the top. "Guides and instructors are not allowed to bring guests off the official trails." He tucked the pass back into his shirt.

"That doesn't seem like a smart policy," Derek pointed out. "Not showing people the unmarked terrain won't keep them off it, but it _will_ send them in without any prior knowledge."

Stiles sighed, and dragged a hand over his face. "Tell me about it. I guess it's a liability issue. Most of the mountains around here have the same policy." Dropping his forearms to the table, he squinted slightly at Derek. "Are you going to yell at me?"

Perplexed, Derek blinked at him. "No. Why?"

"You'd be surprised at how many people do," he shrugged, and Derek frowned.

"It's annoying, yeah, but it's not your fault. I wouldn't want you to get in trouble."

It was Stiles' turn to blink, but whatever he might've said was interrupted when Allison returned with their drinks, and he turned his gaze away to grin at her. "Thanks, Al." He pulled his soda over and proceeded to drain half of it in a single pull on the straw, prompting Derek to arch an eyebrow. As he sat back with a content sigh, Stiles caught the look. "I was thirsty!" he protested.

"Apparently so." Stiles only grinned at the dry tone, and fiddled with his glass.

"So were you getting bored? We could go up to Outlook if you wanted, or maybe check out one of the terrain parks."

"I wasn't bored," Derek corrected. "I'd like to see Outlook, though." That earned him a grin.

"Sounds like a plan." They lapsed into silence for a few moments as Stiles glanced around the room, presumably looking for their food, not seeming to notice that he was gnawing on his straw as he did so. He straightened, though, as Alison came toward them bearing a tray. She placed Derek's plate before him, salmon with rice and green beans, then proceeded to give Stiles a giant burger and the largest serving of curly fries he'd ever seen. Derek's eyebrows rose, but Stiles only gave a pleased hum and popped a fry in his mouth, grinning up at Allison. "You're the best. You're my _faaaaaavorite._ Don't tell Scott, he'll be jealous of our bromance."

She only laughed. "Remember that the next time I ask you for a favor. Enjoy your lunch, guys."

As she left, Stiles attacked his food with relish. "Boyd makes the _best_ burgers," he informed Derek, mouth half full. "Like, seriously. Not the best in Colorado. _The_ best. Second only to his curly fries."

Unsure what to say to that, Derek offered, "Boyd's the cook?" Stiles bobbed his head in a nod, pausing to take a sip of soda before answering.

"Head chef - he owns the place. Or something like 40%. The bartender, Isaac, and Erica, the hostess-slash-business manager, each have 30%, I think. Er, ah, speaking of the devil. The terrifying woman headed right for us? Erica!" The last was delivered as a somewhat overly-enthusiastic greeting. Derek had a feeling the subtext read, 'yes hello I am in properly fearful awe of your prowess please don't kill me.'

A blonde woman wearing an elegant black skirt, heels, and a blood red blouse (to match her lipstick and her nails) stopped beside their table, narrowing her eyes at them. "Stiles." She was overdressed for the lodge, where nearly everyone else was wearing various layers of their snow gear, but Derek had to admit that it worked for her. "Is this a guest?"

"Er, yes, this is Der-"

She cut him off. "So I'm assuming you'll be using a voucher for lunch?"

"Yeeees....?" Stiles answered, drawing out the vowel in confusion.

"And," she continued, voice poisonously mellow, "I'm assuming you will be _reporting that?_ "

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, yes, sorry, I forgot last week, didn't I? I'll definite-"

"Stiles. If you don't report it, we don't get paid. Got it?"

"Yes," he replied meekly.

Favoring him with a predatory smile, she said, "Good. Mr. Hale, pleasure to meet you." With that, she proceeded to stalk away.

After a beat of silence, Derek asked, "Do I want to know?"

Stiles pulled a face. "Since you paid for the day, the mountain covers your lunch - and mine. I get vouchers to use at local places, if we don't want to eat at the lodge. But I have to record the ones I use each week, or it delays the restaurants' compensation." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Bureaucracy, man."

"How'd she know who I was?"

Stiles lifted his hands in a 'don't ask me,' gesture, then picked up a curly fry to gesture with. "Hell if I know. She and Lydia are probably plotting to steal Jackson's inheritance from under his nose, and the first step is knowing every time anyone so much as sneezes near the mountain."

"What?"

"Never mind. Want some?" He shoved the plate of curly fries toward Derek, who considered it for a moment. But Laura wasn't there to glower at him, so he shrugged, and took one. Stiles was right - they were delicious. He stole a second, then nudged the plate back over, and spent the rest of the lunch listening to Stiles ramble about how Erica was terrifying, especially because _how does one walk through snow in heels_ and how Isaac is a complete puppy and _don't growl at him, Derek, he's too precious._ Derek interjected at that point - _I do not 'growl'_ \- and they finished their meal amidst playful banter. When they stood to leave, Stiles tossed a couple slips of paper on the table along with a few bills, presumably a tip for Allison. They redressed, Stiles turning to grin at him as he buckled on his helmet.

"Ready to get back out there?" Derek nodded, tugging on his gloves, and followed Stiles back into the cold.


End file.
